The Quarantined
by comatose bum
Summary: PostHBP. 3yrs after Voldemort's defeat, McGonagall's paranoid and sends Harry Potter on a simple mission that a even 5th yr could do. In a twist of events, Harry finds himself trapped and relying on the help of the man he was suppose to capture. HPDMslash


Disclaimer: I think Daniel Radcliffe is getting uglier by the minute- I mean, I don't own Harry Potter – cos if I did, I would have picked someone better looking and the sixth book _wouldn't_ have happened.

Author's Note: I really ought to finish my other HPDM fic eh? Don't worry it's undergoing immense reconstruction. That's something to look forward to. So without further ado, I give to you:

The Quarantined

Harry sighed. He really regretted taking on this mission. Had he known that he had to put up with this shit he would have turned down the job and let McGonagall deal with the problem herself. It had been three years since the defeat of Voldemort, and since then the Order had been left with the petty tasks of cleaning up the streets off dark magic and tracing whereabouts of wizards and witches that had gone missing during the war.

Gulping down his Firewhiskey, Harry winced as the rowdy crowd let out a load roar as the next act walked onto the dingy stage. Paying little attention to the act, Harry cursed at the recent turn of events that happened this very afternoon.

He had been at Ron's place, looking after the young Weasley's when he received the message from the Order. Having not been assigned a task in weeks, the current Commanding Auror was eager to take on an assignment that required more than just a simple Removal Spell and a few well thrown Leg Locker's Curse. However, he was severely disappointed upon receiving his task.

"_You're sending me on a site investigation?" Harry asked incredulously. McGonagall pursed her lips, revealing little patience for Harry's remark._

"_I've been looking through the reports for the past week" She explained, "The site has given us ample evidence for us to suspect it as a breeding ground for Dark Magic." She continued in a tone that left no room for discussion._

"_Reports have shown that a Marked figure is known to frequent the place-"_

"_But Professor," Harry blurted unable to contain his bewilderment. "This is an assignment that a junior auror could have handled easily! Is it really necessary for me to-"_

"_Mr Potter," Professor McGonagall interrupted, nostrils flaring, "It is imperative for you to oversee this case personally and bear witness to the chain of events that are likely to unfold if you are willing to place effort into it. This case is too volatile for some junior member of the force to undertake."_

Reflexes taking over, Harry levitated his glass of Firewhiskey just as an ogre crashed violently into his table. Immediately a brawl broke out between the ogre and the minotaur he had dragged down with him. Punches were about to fly when the music began and the Dark creatures paused to leer collectively at the act on stage, the fight forgotten.

Undisturbed by his surroundings, Harry was still in deep thought about his earlier briefing with McGonagall at the Order's Headquarters.

"_The site is Medusa's Inn, located on the border of Knockturn and Diagon Alley. Its reputation is notorious and it's wild performances, even more." McGonagall said grimly, her lips drawing into a thin line._

"_There is an act – they call it The Deatheater's Son. See what you can make of it. We may have to have this building Sweeped."_

Sweep.

A postwar termed coined in reference to the big cleanup they had a year ago. Rarely did the Order ever issue a Sweep. It meant the quarantining of a particular building, where its occupants are locked in for three days. Without the time of day, fresh food, proper hygiene and enough space to move about, normal witches and wizards would become irritable and temperamental within one and a half days. But Sweeping was meant for rooting out those of Dark sources. By the third day, cracks would begin to show and the Dark creatures would be ripe for the picking.

Harry had only taken part in a Sweep once – the first one the Order ever issued. It was a relatively simple task, albeit one that required stamina and stealth. Sweeps were only issued with the evidence of Dark gathering, with a single Order member within the quarantined building to give scheduled reports on the situation. To even consider a Sweep for one Marked figure…

Harry grew sober upon that note; this assignment is probably more dangerous than it appears to be.

His attention finally returned to the lone figure on stage. The performer was in the middle of his act – The Deatheater's Son. What could he make of it – it was nothing more than a hyped up strip show to satisfy the perverse desires of the inn's customers. The performer was clad in black, dirty robes meant to imitate those that the Deatheaters had donned all those years ago.

The air was heavy with the smell of sin. Alcohol reeked on the breaths of the inn's customers. All eyes glued on the stage, their breath heavy and eager for more. They were chanting, in mixed tongues of Dark languages, chanting for more. Then the performer shed his 'Deatheater's' mask and the crowd went silent in awe.

Harry felt his blood freeze. A nearby demon's bottle of Snake's Brew shattered, unnoticed in the frenzy.

Green eyes widened in recognition.

_Malfoy._

Then the moment was broken. The crowd began to catcall; they wanted to see some action. Shaken, Harry downed his drink, ignoring the burning sensation of the liquor shooting down his throat. Malfoy. He hadn't seen that bastard since the war. And now he was here. Peddling his body in some cheap bar. Is this the Marked figure worth Sweeping the entire inn for?

Harry clenched his fist, angered by McGonagall's paranoia. The old witch was wasting his time. Asking him to chase a fallen Deatheater who didn't even have the dignity to carry himself as an ex Deatheater. Such a title could have bought him enough respect from these lowlife Dark creatures.

He was going to call this mission off. There was no need for the Order to send their Commanding Auror here. There was no need to even file a case for Malfoy. The ex Deatheater was too weak and pathetic to pose a threat to the Order. And as far as Harry was concerned, there was no need to even report this discovery to the Missing Persons Unit.

He had no more business here. Harry got out of his seat, giving the stage one last glance. His lips curled in disgust as he saw Malfoy performed acts of sexual favours to another performer presumably posing as Lucius Malfoy – the real Lucius Malfoy was killed during the war. The crowd roared with delight, their blood churning with drunken lust.

Harry felt sick.

--

Review yea? If it's any good I'll upload the second chapter.


End file.
